Mrs. Baron stared after him, dumfounded. “I’ll do nothing of the sort!” she exclaimed. “She shall not be treated unkindly, as you ought to know. We owe that much to ourselves.”
CHAPTER XI
HOW A CONVEYANCE CAME FOR BONNIE MAY—AND HOW IT WENT AWAY
True to his promise, Baron set aside that evening to call on the Thornburgs.
As he emerged from the vestibule and stood for a moment on the top step he noted that the familiar conflict between the departing daylight and the long files of street-lamps up and down the avenue was being waged. In the country, no doubt, this hour would be regarded as a part of the day; but in the city it was being drawn ruthlessly into the maw of night. There was never any twilight on the avenue.
Already countless thousands of people had had dinner, and were thronging the avenue in that restless march which is called the pursuit of pleasure.
He slipped into the human current and disappeared just a moment too soon to observe that an automobile swerved out from its course and drew up in front of the mansion.
A youthful-looking old lady with snowy hair and with small, neatly gloved hands, pushed open the door and emerged. With the manner of one who repeats a request she paused and turned.
“Do come in, Colonel,” she called into the shadowy recesses of the car.
A gray, imposing-appearing man with a good deal of vitality still showing in his eyes and complexion smiled back at her inscrutably. “Go on,” he said, tucking his cigar beneath the grizzled stubble on his upper lip, and bringing his hand down with a large gesture of leisurely contentment. “You’ll be all right. I don’t mind waiting.”
And Mrs. Harrod proceeded alone to make her call.